


Gag Me (With a Spoon)

by ellipsisthegreat



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-11
Updated: 2010-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsisthegreat/pseuds/ellipsisthegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a nice spoon. A good spoon…but that soup spoon would have been much more appealing to me, were it not being shoved into my mouth every few seconds. Commission fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gag Me (With a Spoon)

_**DISCLAIMER** : Kingdom Hearts and everything affiliated with it belongs to SquareEnix and Disney. All I own is the plot…_

 _ **Dedication** : To FinalFallenFantasy, who grabbed my 7,000 kiriban on deviantart! Congrats, hon!_

 _ **Theme** : Spoon_

It was a nice spoon.

A good spoon—the kind that's deep, and more of a circle than the egg-shape that most of them have. A soup spoon, Mom says.

She collected spoons, see, so we had this silverware drawer with _normal_ spoons, and then cases and cases full of spoons from all over the world that my dad buys for her on his business trips.

But that…well, it isn't exactly the point about that soup spoon earlier.

The point is that that soup spoon would have been _much_ more appealing to me, were it not being shoved into my mouth every few seconds.

"Quit being so _fucking_ stubborn, lamer."

"Mebbe if you'd quit—gack!"

The 'gack,' of course, was thanks to that damn soup spoon.

Actually, no. Let's not go blaming poor, innocent spoons when they weren't at fault.

The truth is, the 'gack' was thanks to one Seifer Almasy, Twilight Town's resident jackass…I mean leader of the Twilight Town Disciplinary Committee.

(Same thing, probably.)

See…well, let me explain:

A few days prior to the spoon-gagging session you walked in on, Seifer and I had gotten into a fight. As per usual, I'll admit. We kind of fought whenever we saw each other…and no, I'm not really exaggerating.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a _little_ , but not much. We really _did_ fight a lot.

Ah, I'm getting off track again. I blame the cold…but that comes a bit later.

Anyhow, we got into a fight at the Sandlot, this little area of town that's _meant_ to be fought in, albeit they're also meant to be sanctioned Struggle fights and not impromptu fistfights, but I've never been too good at paying attention to those sorts of details.

So we were fighting, right? And just as I had (somehow) managed to tackle him and was (hopefully) about to pulverize the smarmy bastard, it started to fucking _rain_.

Yeah, that's what _I_ said.

Now, all of our friends had, by that point, abandoned us. That is to say, they got tired of our 'pissing fight,' as Olette referred to them when she was furious enough to use the word 'pissing,' and realized it was about to rain, and walked off without so much as a 'fare thee well.'

Great friends, yeah?

The fun part about all of that was that the trolley had stopped running, and my apartment was on the other side of town. So I threw in one last punch for good measure, grabbed my skateboard, and took off as fast as I could manage toward my house.

Not fast enough, obviously, as my cold proves.

Which brings us to the reason for Seifer's current let's-gag-Hayner-with-a-spoon-fest.

My mother.

Yeah, you're seeing the circle now, right?

…No?

Okay, well, Mom came to wake me up the next morning (to do fucking _chores_ …in the middle of the fucking _summer_ ) and found me shivering, feverish, and completely incoherent. Somehow, she managed to piece together the story (I think she probably called Olette after a little while of listening to my babbling), and went all 'mama bear' on me.

Or…on Seifer, rather.

I don't think she'd have really bothered (she's one of those people who believes strongly in 'karma' and doesn't feel in the least bit sorry for me when I get into this sort of situation), except that Dad had invited her to go with him to Hawaii for two weeks as part of some Second Honeymoon thing (I'd been trying very, very hard not to think about it any further than 'I'm going to have to cook for myself for the next two weeks').

This, of course, meant that she couldn't take care of me.

And that, of course, meant that she had to go 'mama bear' on Seifer, and guilt/threaten him to stay over at our house until either I got better or she got home, whichever came first.

Thus, the spoon choking.

And now that you've been brought up to date on the hell that is my life…

"Stop fucking trying to talk, chickenwuss. You sound even more retarded than you already are." Seifer said, forcing the spoon, which held nearly-scalding chicken noodle soup, into my mouth.

Choking down the soup and giving the best glare I could possible manage (it's _really_ hard to glare when you're choking), I huffed indignantly. Opening my mouth to make a scathing reply, I found myself cut off when the asshole-to-top-all-assholes shoved the spoon in my mouth again.

Only three days into this god awful experience, and I was seriously beginning to doubt my mother's taste in collectibles. Why would anyone want to collect something that was so very obviously meant to be a torture device?

"There." Seifer muttered, spoon clanking in the bottom of the (thankfully) empty bowl. He stood, making his way towards the door. "There's a bucket by your bed if you gotta puke," he said, even though people with a cold don't puke, "and some tissues if you gotta blow your nose. Yell if you gotta take a piss." He paused, eyeing me over his shoulder thoughtfully. "On second thought…"

And then he just fucking _left_ , leaving me to wonder if he meant to just deal with it myself, or…I dunno, something slightly less asshole-ish.

The wondering stopped when, a few moments later, he re-entered the room and threw a little hand bell on the bed next to me (though the 'next to me' part was a close call—he nearly hit me).

"Ring if you need me." He amended his earlier statement. "And so fucking help me God, if you ring me for some pointless shit, I'll fucking ring your neck and leave you to wallow in your own snot, got me?"

I nodded, finding I had become far too miserable to retort. My head was starting to become unbearably fuzzy, and all I really wanted to do was collapse back into my pillows and sleep until I died. Or got better.

At this point, either was sounding equally appealing.

But I couldn't do that with him there. _Staring_ at me. Ugh.

He eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then turned and left again without another word.

I collapsed.

(PAGEBREAK,Y'KNOW?)

Ah, the spoon again. This time, no soup—just a vile tasting liquid that people referred to as 'grape-flavored cold medicine' but which should really just be called 'shit-flavored lies,' seeing as how it tasted like shit and certainly wasn't making _me_ feel any better.

This time, the spoon was shortly followed by a thermometer, which I begrudgingly let Seifer hold under my tongue until it made that little beeping noise that meant it knew my temperature, now, so get it out of my fucking mouth, thank you.

"Still too high." He said, more to himself than me.

You'd think he expected the medicine to work immediately. Dumbass.

Then he reached over the side of the bed to grab the Wal-Mart bag he'd brought in with him. He dug through it for a moment before shoving a small bottle at me, then pulled out a box and set to opening it.

"Whassis?" I asked intelligently.

"Saline spray. It'll help clear the snot out of your nose." He said, not looking at me.

"Whazzat?"

"Humidifier." He said shortly, in that tone he gets when he's tired of being questioned.

"Whassit do?"

"Humidifies shit, you fuck-tard." He said, giving me a dry look. "I looked up some stuff on the internet and it said humidity helps with colds."

I just gave him a confused look in return—my head was going fuzzy again—and watched him assemble the machine with that detached sort of interest that fuzzy-headedness gives you.

He looked at me, finally.

"Go to sleep, lamer." He said, cheeks oddly pinker than usual.

With a shrug, and feeling far less self-conscious than I had the last time, I fell back into my pillows and drifted off to sleep.

(PAGEBREAK,Y'KNOW?)

Four or five days later found me feeling _much_ better, surprisingly enough. I could breathe out of one nostril (which brought me a lot more joy than it probably should have), I only hacked up half a lung when I coughed instead of both of them, and I didn't need to sleep much more than the usual amount.

And the part I was most excited about: I could feed myself the soup instead of Seifer doing it. I've found it's a lot easier to eat when a spoon isn't being shoved into your mouth every few seconds. Also, the soup he was feeding me was _really good_ —I made a mental note to ask what brand it was.

…I like soup. Fuck off.

The only problem I had with feeding myself was that Seifer still insisted on staying in my room until I was finished. And he didn't eat at the same time I did, or something, which meant that he just kind of sat on the edge of my bed and watched me eat.

Unnerving. Very unnerving.

"You don't…have to watch me like that, y'know." I said, proud of myself for not sounding so much like I had a broken nose.

He shrugged, leaning on my footrest and closing his eyes with a soft sigh. He looked like he was about to pass out.

"Dude, you catching my cold?" I asked.

He cracked one eye open, but that was enough for him to get across just how irritated he was. "I don't get sick." He said. "I'm just tired."

"Then you should go to sleep." I advised sagely.

He rolled his eye and then closed it again with another of those sighs. "Can't. Gotta watch after your sick ass or your mom'll kill me." He paused. "How'd a scary bitch like her end up with a wuss like _you_ for a son?"

I frowned. "Don't call my mom a bitch."

"I call 'em as I see 'em." He said. "And I didn't say it was a bad thing."

I gave him an incredulous look (not that he could see it, eyes being closed and all). "Generally being called a bitch _is_ a bad thing, Seifer."

He shrugged weakly, his breathing evening out.

"Are you…did you just fall asleep sitting up?" I asked. He didn't stir. "Holy shit, dude, how tired _were_ you?"

I set the bowl on my bedside table and got out of bed, surprised at how weak I still felt but glad that Seifer had just changed my sheets before feeding me. That meant there was less of a chance of him getting sick if he slept in my bed, especially seeing as how my fever had broken the day before.

More than a little shocked that I didn't manage to wake him up, I pushed him over onto his side and dragged him by the shoulders up to the pillows. I yanked his socks off (he wasn't wearing those monstrous boots of his—I wasn't really sure why he was wearing socks, since he hadn't gone out that day) and somehow got him under the blankets, putting the back of my hand against his forehead to reassure myself that he really wasn't getting sick.

Lucky bastard evidently had the immune system of a friggin' god.

I stared at him for a moment, taken aback by how peaceful and…well, handsome he looked in his sleep, I grabbed the bowl and trudged out of my room, intent on watching some TV in the living room. I flipped channels for a long time, finding nothing to my liking, and decided to watch one of the movies Seifer had apparently rented.

After a while, I finished the soup, and paused the movie so I could take the empty bowl to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher.

I paused in the doorway. There was a large pot on the stove with a lid on it, and the kitchen was actually _clean_. Like, almost sparkling. I checked the pot and realized it was soup, but the lack of cans made me wonder…

And then I saw a notepad on the counter beside it. It had a recipe for chicken soup in it, with little comments scribbled in the margins (' _needs more salt_ ' and ' _lamer likes bigger chunks of chicken_ ' popped out at me). I flipped the page, finding more notes—what tissues I preferred, what other remedies he should try because this and that didn't work, what he should pick up next time he went to the store…

Mom must have really put the fear of God in him, I decided.

Humming thoughtfully, I put the bowl and spoon away and made myself a glass of orange juice (I hated orange juice, but the notebook said it was good for your immune system so I would force it down). I wandered back into the living room and settled back in the couch before re-starting the movie (Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children, if you were wondering). I tried taking small sips of the orange juice for a while, and even made it to that fight scene between Tifa and the crybaby Loz, but eventually just pinched my nose and chugged it while Loz answered his infamous cell phone.

"I bought vitamin C tablets so you wouldn't have to do that." Seifer murmured from the doorway. "And apple juice."

I narrowed my eyes at him a little but didn't say anything, instead just putting the glass on the table beside me, curling the blanket even tighter around me, and turning my gaze back on the movie.

I could feel him stare at me for a long moment and ignored the blush sneaking up my cheeks, but after a while he stopped and went into the kitchen, exiting a few moments later with the tablets and juice he'd mentioned earlier.

"Here." He said, setting them on the table beside me in exchange for my empty orange juice glass. "You want anymore soup?"

I shook my head, pretending to continue watching the movie but in all actuality watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He took the glass into the kitchen, and reappeared a few moments later with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of orange juice (I wondered if he'd used the same one to avoid having to get another one), which he set on the coffee table before flopping down next to me.

"You should be sleeping." I pointed out accusingly.

"I always fall asleep when I watch movies." He said, putting the popcorn in between us.

"How can you fall asleep watching _this_?" I asked.

"Talent." He replied without pause. "Now shut up and watch, chickenwuss."

I snorted, but did so. And sure enough, after the popcorn was gone and right near the end I looked over and found him sleeping again.

"Weirdo." I said, dragging the other blanket from across the back of the couch and draping it over him. He mumbled something under his breath but pulled the blanket close, drawing his legs up onto the couch.

I kind of stared at him for a while, until I realized that the credits were rolling and I'd missed the end. So I rewound it to the last part I remembered and watched it instead of him.

He really was cute when he slept.

And, somehow, as the credits started up again, I found my eyes drooping. Blaming it on my cold, I let myself fall asleep.

(PAGEBREAK,Y'KNOW?)

"Looks like you're better, now." Seifer said when he came to check on me a few days later. "And your folks are supposed to get back tomorrow. So I'm gonna take off."

"'Kay." I said, forcibly ignoring the part of me that wanted him to stay. "Is there any soup left?"

He gave me a weird look.

"I fucking like soup, okay?" I asked, flushing. "And yours is good."

He chuckled, though I noted that he was blushing a little, too.

"I can make some more before I leave. C'mon, you just might learn something." He said, shrugging off his trench coat-thing and going to the kitchen. I followed, watching wordlessly as he gathered the ingredients and started making the soup.

It amazed me how much he seemed to enjoy cooking, as he explained this and that to me. It was the same sort of enthusiasm he showed when we Struggled (a different feeling, of course, since that was more anger and this was more joy), and it kind of blew me away that he was showing it for something so…domestic.

"What else can you make?" I asked curiously as he put the lid onto the pot.

He shrugged. "Lots of stuff…pasta, some chicken dishes, a mean steak…" He glanced at me with an amused look in his eyes. "Other soups."

I scowled but couldn't stop myself from blushing again.

"You wanna be a chef or something?" I asked.

A pause. "I've thought about it." He said hesitantly.

"You obviously like doing it." I said. "And Mom always says you gotta find something you like doing and figure out how to get paid to do it. _And_ if you make everything else half as good as you do this soup, I'm sure you'd be a great chef."

He blinked at me, then narrowed his eyes. "Your fever come back?"

"What? No, why?"

"Because I think we're having a civil conversation." He said. "And if you've got a fever, I'm obviously in the middle of some hallucination you've cooked up."

I rolled my eyes, then felt a giggle force its way out of my throat. "Cooked up." I explained when he gave me a weird look.

"You're so fucking _lame_." He sniggered, putting a hand over his face.

"You're laughing, too." I pointed out.

"Because you're an idiot." He said.

"It was funny." I said. "And I'm not hallucinating, so shut the fuck up and tell me why you've only _thought_ about being a chef instead of _doing_ it when you obviously want to."

He let out one of those sighs that he let out a lot more often than I'd realized prior to this whole mess.

"My folks want me to go into a _respectable_ career." He said.

"Being a chef isn't respectable?" I asked.

"They think I'll end up like my cousin." He said. "He likes cooking, too, and went to some big culinary school, and then ended up being a manager at some fast-food joint."

I wrinkled my nose. "Then he obviously wasn't serious about it. Besides, that's a respectable career, especially if he's a manager. And he could always get a job as a chef somewhere else, later. Either way, they can't expect you to be the same as him. You're too much of a stubborn bastard to settle for anything other than what you want."

"And you'd be the expert on that?"

"Dude, I have the scars to fucking _prove_ it." I said, pulling my shirt up to point at one of the scars in question.

He laughed. "And what are _you_ going to do?"

"I'm going to be a guidance counselor." I said, no-nonsense.

"A…guidance counselor." He intoned.

I nodded. "Yep. I like kids, but I couldn't stand teaching them, and Olette says I give good advice even if I'm too short-tempered and hard-headed to follow it myself most of the time. So I'm gonna be a counselor. A _good_ one, too—not like the shit counselors at Twilight High."

"Huh." He mused.

"Yeah, so…look, man: if you want to be a chef, fucking _do it_. I realize that your parents want to do what's best for you and all that bullshit, but _they_ aren't the ones who are gonna be doing whatever you choose to do for the rest of your life. _You_ are. So unless you'd rather get stuck at some boring desk job or whatever for the rest of your life, miserable and full of 'what-ifs' and shit, _go for it_. If the worst that could happen is you working as a manager at a fast-food place, I'd say there are worse risks you could take."

This time, he threw his head back and laughed in a wholehearted way I'd never heard before.

"Lamer, you are either the _worst_ future guidance counselor ever, or the coolest." He ruffled my hair none-too-gently.

I huffed instead of answering, not bothering to try and fix my hair since I hadn't been gelling it since I got sick, so it looked like crap, anyhow.

"Oh! And you could start a cooking show." I said suddenly, breaking the slightly awkward silence we'd fallen into. "Like Martha Stewart, but for guys. You could call it "Shut the Fuck Up and Cook, With Seifer Almasy.'"

He laughed again, a sound I was quickly becoming addicted to, and sat down on one of the stools at the island, propping his head up on a hand. "You think?"

"Yeah!" I said, on a roll, now. "Teach 'em how to make fancy shit so they can impress girls…or other guys, if they swing that way. 'Cuz, you know, a lot of guys are totally useless at this sort of thing."

"Like you?"

"Yeah, like…" I glared at him. "I'm trying to be encouraging here, asshole."

"Alright, alright." He chortled.

"So…so, I mean, you looked like you were enjoying yourself earlier, telling me all that stuff." I said, motioning at the pot on the stove. "You could have your own kitchen, and a stylist, and one of those weird aprons that says 'Kiss the Cook' or whatever, and—"

"I would _never_ wear a 'Kiss the Cook' apron." He interrupted.

I waved him off. "Fine, fine. They'd probably make you wear one with the name of the show on it, anyhow. Plus, someone from the audience—if you had an audience—might try to take you up on it." I frowned, not entirely sure why that idea was so unappealing to me.

Seifer got an odd glint in his eyes. "Oh?"

"Yeah. And that'd be…distracting." I suddenly didn't want to meet his gaze.

"Would _you_ try to take me up on it?" He asked, smirk as wide as ever.

I sputtered for a moment. "Well…well I'd rather you gagged me with your tongue than one of those fucking spoons, that's for damn sure." I clapped my hands over my mouth, eyes wide.

He stared at me, and I stared at him, and we stared at each other for a long while before his smirk, which had been frozen onto his face, moved again, getting bigger than I'd ever seen it.

"What're you waiting for, then, lamer?" He asked, leaning towards me. "Kiss the cook."

"Ah…uh, I…erm…"

He rolled his eyes and leaned forward, capturing my lips in a kiss that traveled from my head to my toes and made my feet stick to the floor.

He pulled away minutely, his breath tickling my already tingling lips. "Y'know, there aren't any aprons that say 'Kiss the Guidance Counselor.'"

"Oh, fuck off." I said, and kissed him again.

And, yeah, I _definitely_ preferred being gagged by him to being gagged by a spoon.

The End


End file.
